


Lash

by Plenoptic



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Consensual, F/M, M/M, Revenge Sex, Rough Sex, moderate to severe Machiavelli worship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5271893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Machiavelli and Ezio carry out a twisted revenge against Volpe for his betrayal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Punish

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter one is cross-posted from Ch 35 of "The Prince and the Fox."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ezio and Machiavelli "hatch their plot."

Niccolò had had his share of big men, but he still flinched when Ezio’s stupidly thick cock breached his body, groaning when the older assassin’s hips pressed flush to his ass and hitched in deeply. Ezio expelled a warm breath against his throat, grunting as he shunted his hips backwards, trying to get comfortable.

“ _Fuck_. Virgins aren’t even this tight.”

“Women are— _nngh_ —built for this.” Niccolò grasped at the sheets above his head and gasped sharply when Ezio fucked into him, an experimental little thrust that pushed up against his over-sensitized prostate and made him see white. It ached so hard and so deep that he could swear he tasted Ezio in the back of his throat.

“H-Harder.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, you buffoon, now— _ungh_! Not _that_ hard!”

“Then be more specific!”

“What, you want a physical calculation of the appropriate force?”

Ezio sighed, pinning Niccolò with a hand on his chest and rocking into the younger man’s body. “You’re lucky you’re such a good—mm. Such a good fuck.”

“Ah—like that. There.” Niccolò tipped his head back, arching his hips up into the next hard thrust and moaning quietly. “ _There_.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because that’s where it feels good, idiot.”

“No. Why you want this.”

Niccolò closed his eyes, trying to enjoy being so slick and so full, trying not to imagine anyone else’s hands or body or soft, sultry voice, certainly not thinking of “ _Tesoro_ ” in a whisper against his throat while they loved long nights away. Certainly not.

“I need a reason to want to fuck? Besides just wanting to fuck?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?”

“Because usually you fuck Volpe,” Ezio murmured, and roughened his pace before Niccolò could retort, pounding into him and drawing hard gasps from the younger man’s mouth. “Mm. You loosened up pretty quickly. He must ride you hard.”

Niccolò snarled and tried to hit him, growling when Ezio grabbed both his wrists and pinned him to the bed, still fucking him into the mattress while the headboard thudded against the wall. Ezio bent his head and kissed him tongue-first, and it felt good but it didn’t feel right. Niccolò broke away and looked off to his left, biting his lip when he felt the first warm splashes of cum inside his body.

“Sorry,” Ezio mumbled, resting his head against the younger man’s shoulder and grinding against him with a weak little moan. “I’m not quite there yet.”

“Take your time.” Niccolò inhaled deeply, closing his eyes; Ezio’s firm belly was pressed up against his cock, smearing his precum all over that gloriously dark skin, leaving him debauched and glistening. “I should have fallen in love with you.”

“And I you. You make a pretty picture beneath me.” Ezio fucked into him roughly and Niccolò grunted with the force of it. “Why aren’t you with Volpe?”

“Please, Ezio. Just fuck me. Please. I don’t want to think about anything else.”

A pause, and then a hand dragged down the center of his chest, pausing to pinch his nipple. “Does he touch you like this?”

“Ezio—”

“Does he play with your cock when he takes you?”

“Ezio, _stop talking_ and just—”

Another kiss, deep and wet, and Niccolò’s head swam for air before Ezio pulled away and roughly licked at his panting mouth, biting Niccolò’s lower lip so sharply that he bled.

“He must love your mouth. Sweet. Soft.” A ragged grin and low chuckle. “Almost like a girl’s.”

“Fuck you.”

“Mm. Not so sweet as I thought. Be careful, I’ve punished sweeter mouths than yours.” Ezio smiled and leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “Do you get down to your knees for him? Hm? Suck on him, let him fuck your throat? Has he ever cum on your mouth? Not in. _On._ ”

Niccolò meant to swear at him, meant to tell him to go to hell and fuck himself all the way there, but when he opened  his mouth he moaned instead, and he felt his cock swell against Ezio’s stomach.

“Does he lick you? Bite you? How does he prepare you—with his fingers, holding you open, stretching you, or does he use his tongue? Kiss his way down your body, lave his tongue between your legs, get you nice and wet before he makes you his?”

Oh, God. Niccolò focused on the ceiling and tried not to feel. Ezio hit his prostate with every stroke, and everything felt tight and hot and overstimulated.

“Ezio, please—don’t—I’m c-coming—”

“Did he hurt you?” Ezio whispered, and Niccolò froze beneath him, horror choking his breath. “Is that what this is about? You know, don’t you—that he believed you a traitor.”

“...Ezio.”

“Niccolò.” Ezio tilted his head and softly bit at the side of the younger assassin’s neck. “He loves you. The night after I stopped him, he came to me and wept and confessed that he loved you.”

Niccolò squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to know that Volpe had tried to kill him, loving him all the while—

“He intended to take his own life after he took yours. I don’t blame him. Who could kill the one they loved and continue living?”

“If you know—” Niccolò hitched out a hard breath when Ezio pushed deep into him and then held there. “If you know he loves me, then why did you come to bed with me?”

“Hm. Perhaps I’m just angry.” Ezio rocked out and then back in, setting a pace that was so slow and so torturous that Niccolò keened with every thrust, nails digging into his mentor’s forearms. Ezio lowered his torso until their bodies were flush. “Perhaps I’m just punishing him for what he almost did.”

Niccolò closed his eyes when he came, tangling his hands in Ezio’s dark hair. It was good. Not as good as it was with Volpe—he didn’t sob and cry out, didn’t feel every muscle tighten while stars danced behind his eyes, didn’t hear that sweet murmur of “ _Tesoro_ ” before gentle lips met his—but Ezio held him close and pounded him roughly through his orgasm before reaching his own with a few soft, profane grunts and moans. He withdrew and took his cock in hand, ejaculating somewhat unspectacularly between Niccolò’s legs.

“That’s rude,” Niccolò mumbled. He slung an arm over his eyes and released a long, slow breath, unhooking his legs from around Ezio’s waist and stretching with a groan. Ezio flopped down beside him and wrapped a hand around the younger man’s cock, pumping him gently until the last few lazy drops of cum dribbled onto his stomach.

“Tomorrow morning,” Ezio said quietly, trailing his fingers through the mess just below Niccolò’s navel, “go to Volpe. He wants to mend this.”

“Why should I?”

“Don’t you love him?”

“That hardly matters. He literally tried to stick a knife into my back. He’d have succeeded, were it not for you.” Niccolò rolled over onto his side and propped himself up on an elbow, quirking a weary smile. “Maybe I should be trying to win your heart instead.”

“I don’t generally like to mix business and pleasure.”

“I’ve never heard such utter bullshit before in my life.”

Ezio smiled faintly and leaned forward. Their kiss was sweet, but it tasted like a farewell. “I’m going to return to my quarters.”

“You can stay.”

“No. I can’t. Think on all that I’ve said.” Ezio got to his feet and swatted the younger man’s ass for good measure, grinning at the scowl he got in return. “And done, if it pleases you.”

“I find myself pleasured to capacity.” Niccolò lay back on the bed, lacing his arms behind his head while he watched his mentor dress. “Ezio.”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

The grandmaster smiled, and for one fleeting moment Niccolò wished desperately that the older man would stay, that he could spend the whole night stealing kisses from that sinful mouth, but Ezio opened the door. “Go to Volpe,” he repeated, and stepped out, leaving Niccolò alone with his turbulent thoughts.


	2. Linger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Volpe is sick, Machiavelli and Ezio don't know what they're doing, and Claudia has a crush.

Niccolò didn’t go to Volpe— not right away. He did spend more time in Ezio’s bed. Some nights they fucked, snarled and moaned through rough, brutal couplings that left Niccolò aching the next morning. His mentor was a biter; Niccolò found inventive ways to hide the marks Ezio left on his neck, from heavy scarves to powders to ridiculous frilly-necked doublets that made him feel like a peacock but were better than having his comrades snigger at the bruises all over his throat.

Some nights they just talked. Ezio proved to be an intensely physical person; even if they didn’t actively have sex, he seemed to like holding his bed mate close, running slow caresses up and down Niccolò’s body while they murmured at one another in the dark. Ezio also liked talking about his family. He talked about his mother, how angry she used to get at him for chasing every girl in the city; about his father, about Giovanni’s steadfast guidance and level-headed approach to every conflict; about little Petruccio, who had been so sickly and yet so full of life; about foolhardy and good-natured Federico, who had more Ezio’s other half than his brother; and at length he would talk about Claudia, and Niccolò fell under the impression that the Auditore girl was the only source of softness Ezio had ever experienced.

Niccolò wasn’t falling in love. Not for lack of trying—he would give anything to shift his affections onto Ezio, to find comfort and closeness with the only man he truly trusted—but in the small hours of the morning, when Ezio finally slipped off into sleep, Niccolò lay awake yearning, desperately aching for the thief who had utter and total possession of his heart.

But he liked the talking, and he liked the sex. So he stayed. And Ezio learned not to speak of la Volpe, or of the horrors he’d nearly committed.

* * *

In his nightmares, Ezio didn’t make it in time.

In the small hours of the morning, when he finally he tumbled into restless sleep, Volpe closed the distance between himself and his target and his blade sank into Niccolò’s back, bit through his heavy coat and muscle and sinew and cut into his heart. In his nightmares, he saw crimson; he felt the weight of his beloved in his arms when Niccolò collapsed against him, choking on the blood, stuttering through the pain, grasping at him, eyes asking _why_ even as the light fled from them, as the storm in those gray irises calmed at last. In his nightmares, Volpe held his _tesoro_ until the last of his life escaped him, and then lifted the body in his arms and stepped into the river, let the weight of his crime carry him to the bottom of the Tiber, where he belonged.

He awoke. Thankfully, he always awoke, but when he did, his arms still ached with the dead weight and his hands were still stained with blood, and he could feel the frantic pulse of Niccolò’s heart and feel the coldness of his lips when kissed one last time.

Volpe leaned over the side of his bed and vomited. Everything hurt; he burned with fever, and as he vomited his nose began to bleed anew. He’d never been so ill in his life. He’d refused Claudia’s tending, and sent Ezio away with a snarl. He didn’t need their help—didn’t _want_ it. He had almost sacrificed everything for them, _everything_ , sacrificed the _only person who_ _mattered_ , and he couldn’t stand to even look at them now. They were alive, he was alive, the Order was saved, but for _what_? At what _cost?_ He had traded Niccolò’s love for the promise of the Order’s security, and he hated himself for doing so.

Lost. Volpe clenched a hand against his chest, sucking in slow, calming breaths to quell the nausea. He’d lost _Niccolò._ His beautiful boy wasn’t his anymore. Niccolò didn’t kiss him awake anymore, or read to him quietly at night, or pin him to the bed and ride him to the point of exhaustion, or smile and laugh with him and take his hand when no one was looking, or pull him close and murmur confessions of love in his ear before they parted.

He’d heard rumors that it was Ezio in Niccolò’s bed now, Ezio who kissed him and held him and laid with him. Volpe couldn’t stand to even think of it. He couldn’t _stand_ that Ezio would save Niccolò’s life only to take it for himself. Did Niccolò feel indebted to him? Was that it? Or was this just vengeance, the reckless pursuit of the one thing that would hurt Volpe most, or did he not even care enough about the thief to do that? Or did Niccolò _actually_ …?

No. No, no, he wouldn’t think it. Machiavelli’s love wasn’t so easily won, or so easily lost. Volpe swung his legs out of bed and staggered to the table at the other end of the room, grasping the water pitcher and tipping it up to his dry lips. This fever may well kill him, he thought, as he struggled back to bed and collapsed on top of the coverlet, his tunic sticking to his skin, sweat beading along his brow, blood dripping from his nose while his stomach roiled.

The fever dreams were almost worse than the nightmares, because in his delirium he dreamt that Niccolò was still his. He _felt_ the soft touches, the hands that slid through his hair and the gentle mouth that marked a path across his shoulders. He heard the quiet murmur of “Gilberto” and tasted the sweetness of a slow kiss, tasted Niccolò’s intrepid tongue against his, laden with want and made delicious by sin, heard the bed creak as they lay down upon it and tangled together, clothes pulled up and over heads and trousers pulled down past hips while hungry hands explored and groped and caressed.

Volpe grasped his bare cock and pumped himself roughly, pushing through the pain of his dry palm on his aching skin, moaning Niccolò’s name into his pillow, his pleas melting into soft gasps of _Bellissimo, Caro, Tesoro, Amore,_  before he could stop himself, and hot tears blurred his vision when he finally came.

* * *

“I’d like to take this opportunity to suggest you to Claudia.”

Niccolò looked up from his book and quirked a brow at the naked man in his bed. “What?”

Ezio shrugged one gloriously broad shoulder, a smile curving his mouth. He lowered his head and laved a few more soft licks against Niccolò’s cock, humming into a soft kiss upon the tip. “She thinks you’re handsome.” The way he said it, in easy, measured tones, made it more than obvious that Claudia thought a great deal more than that. Niccolò didn’t push it.

“I don’t enjoy women as lovers.” Niccolò tried to return his attention to Plato, but it was a tall order with Ezio’s stupidly talented wet tongue painting the alphabet across his tip. “Suck me or don’t, I don’t like being teased.”

“Stopping is an option? I would think you’d be furious if I stopped now.” As if to prove his point, Ezio drew away, and Niccolò’s hips hitched forward, chasing his indulgent mouth. The master assassin laughed deeply and took his protege’s entire length past his lips, sucking him hard and pulling him into his throat while Niccolò keened and moaned, tugging on Ezio’s gloriously dark hair while he shamelessly fucked his mouth.

He was returning the favor with a lazy, oil-slicked fist when Ezio spoke again. “Now that you’ve cut yourself loose of Volpe, it’s an opportune time to try and be with a woman again.”

“Mm.” Niccolò rested his chin on Ezio’s hip, watching his fist move up and down, up and down, hiding and revealing the glorious length of the cock that had become so familiar. Ezio’s body had become something of a fascination to him; he spent an hour straight just exploring his mentor, exciting him, tracing his fingers over the thickness of his cock to the unobtrusive shapeliness of his testicles and across the smoothness of his perineum and into the tight heat of his body. And the fucking he received afterward had made his diligence worth it. “I don’t know. And why are you offering me your sister?”

Another shrug, but Ezio’s breath had become heavy and hitched. His hips moved slowly, rolling upward into the slick drag of Niccolò’s fist with an easy rhythm. “She could handle you. And you’d be good for her. She needs discipline.”

Perhaps. Claudia was pretty. They got along well, mostly thanks to their shared frustrations over Ezio. And she was deadly strong. Attractive, certainly. But could she lift him onto her hips, kiss him savagely before throwing him onto the bed and pinning his wrists while she fucked him blind?

Perhaps not.

“I’ll think on it,” he told Ezio, though he had no intention of doing so. But Ezio was coming with rough grunts and grinding teeth, and was therefore much too distracted to see through the lie.

* * *

“If you don’t let me help you, you’re going to die.”

Claudia thought she had spoken plainly enough that even that idiot could understand, but, sick and nearly delirious with fever, Volpe had shouted her out of his room and slammed the door in her face. Fuming, Claudia returned to her brothel, grinding her teeth all the way, wishing that the sorry bastard would just die already so the lingering animosity of his unintentional betrayal would finally dissipate. Machiavelli wasn’t himself; his sarcasm was far more biting than usual, he associated with the recruits little, he hadn’t dropped by Rosa in Fiore to bring Claudia interesting books and try her new cakes, as had become his habit. He mostly tagged along with Ezio, and Ezio, who had _never_ been the coddling sort, let him, while Volpe rotted away in his sickbed.

Claudia rolled her eyes. Why were men so stupid? Why did they let themselves get so tied up in matters of “honor” and “loyalty” that they lost sight of what was truly important? Why the hell were such fragile little children running the world?

“ _Ciao_ , Claudia,” Mama said gently, and her daughter accepted a kiss to the cheek before heading for the stairs. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“I’ve a headache,” Claudia replied. Not quite a lie.

“You haven’t contracted Volpe’s ailment?”

She snorted. “No. What ails that man is no foul humor.”

Mama made that infuriating ‘hm’ sound that mothers make when they think they know better than their children. “Well, before you go hide away for the night, _Signor_ Machiavelli is here to see you.”

Speak of the devil. Claudia paused on the stairs, considering, and at length turned around with a resigned little sigh. “Where?”

She found him on the veranda out back, leaning his weight against the railing and watching the Roman streets below. Claudia joined him, and they stood in silence for a while, admiring their unconventional second home. On impulse—and because she liked Niccolò, and always had—Claudia leaned into his side, resting her head against his shoulder. If she was being honest with herself, she’d never been so taken with a man—well. Excepting that fuckwit Duccio, and she usually excepted him from anything save for her “Men I’d Like to Kill” list (it grew by the day, and he was its patron saint). But Machiavelli was brilliant where Duccio had been thick, and gentle where Duccio had been boorish, and Claudia felt drawn to him. She wasn’t in love—thank Christ—but sometimes she thought that was only through force of will, aided by the knowledge that his heart was with another. With a man, at that. Perhaps, if he’d been just a little more attainable, she’d be in real danger…

“Where is he?”

Of course. Claudia smiled to herself. “Not even a hello first? Where are you manners, Nico?”

He scowled; she didn’t need to see the unhappy curve of his mouth to know it was there. “Don’t call me that.”

She sighed and threaded her arm through his. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are.”

“Would we be friends even without the Brotherhood?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“You’re not with Volpe right now, are you?”

He turned to her and tried to pull his arm away, but she held fast. “Claudia…”

“I’ll tell you what you want to know. You know I will. But put my heart to rest first. Please?”

Niccolò sighed. She saw him hesitate. But at length he tucked a curl of hair behind her ear and leaned in close. She stood on tiptoe to meet his kiss, wrapped her hands around his back and mouthed gently against his lips, soft and yielding beneath hers. In her daydreams—and they were unfortunately many—he would sweep her up in his arms and carry her to his bed and at this point his tongue would already be in her mouth before it slid across her sex. But Niccolò made no move to hold her, or indeed any move to touch her, just stood there and let her kiss him goodbye. Worse, when she finally drew away from him, he wiped at the dampness beneath her eyes and offered her the sad little smile that had become so familiar to her.

“I’m sorry, Claudia.”

“You shouldn’t be sorry for things you don’t feel. Have some pride.” Maybe she meant for it to be vindictive, maybe she meant for it to hurt, but his expression didn’t change; if anything, it softened, and she reminded herself to kick Volpe in the balls later for daring to break that gentle heart. That heart would never be hers, she knew that, but she would still see it hale and whole.

“I hear he’s unwell.”

“He is.” Claudia sighed, raked her fingers through her hair. “He’s at the barracks. He was trying to stay at his little rat’s den but I made Bartolomeo take him in.”

“Then I owe you my thanks.”

“Do you?” She nearly spat the words out. “I still think I should have let him rot there.”

Niccolò chuckled. “But if he died, I wouldn’t get the opportunity to give him a piece of my mind.”

Claudia considered him for a moment. “And will that pierce endear him to you again?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re smarter than that, Niccolò.” She hesitated before she touched his hand, felt the warmth of him even through his heavy gloves. “Are you going back to him?”

His gave his answer in quiet tones. “I don’t know.”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Can you find it in yourself to forgive him?”

“That depends.”

“On what, may I ask?”

“On him. On what he has to say for himself. On how I feel when I see him again. On… myriad other factors. I just don’t know.” He canted his head to the side. “Are you hungry?”

“I haven’t eaten today.”

“I haven’t either.” He smiled and offered her his arm. “Care to join me?”

She grinned and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “First Ezio, now me? My, my, _Signor_ Machiavelli. You’re a breaker of hearts.”

“Only when mine is so broken, it seems.”

Claudia stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. She wouldn’t ask again for the warmth of his mouth, but she would happily play the role of infatuated maiden— to make Volpe jealous, if nothing else.


	3. Cleanse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Volpe gets a bath, and Ezio owns up.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’ve put it off long enough.” Niccolò tied his horse and turned to his mentor. “You don’t have to wait.”

Ezio shrugged and dismounted, lashing his horse alongside Niccolò’s. “I have business to attend with Bartolomeo.”

Lie. But Niccolò let it slide. Should this go poorly, he would want Ezio there with him, shameful as that was. But Niccolò wasn’t above asking for help when he needed it—he’d just never realized how much help he received from Gilberto.

The barracks were little changed since he’d last visited—crowded and smelly and loud. Ezio clapped him on the shoulder and motioned toward the upstairs, where the troops were quartered, before departing to find Bartolomeo. Niccolò idled for a moment in the doorway, listening to the shouts and laughter from downstairs. For a second he entertained the idea of joining them—he could use a good brawl. But Ezio had left a rash of bites up and down his stomach, and he didn’t fancy undressing in front of jeering men, so instead he climbed the stairs.

He heard retching the moment he reached the upper floor, and paused. He knew Volpe was sick, but Christ. The thief—if that was indeed him, trapped in the throes of agony—sounded _awful_. Niccolò hesitated. Seeing his poor Gilberto so miserable may undo his last tether on his self-control. He didn’t want to just collapse back into the master thief’s arms. He wanted an apology. He wanted recompense. A very small, shameful part of him wanted _revenge_.

Steeling himself—and come what may—he headed down the hall and listened briefly for the sounds of illness before opening the door that guarded the thief. The room reeked; neither it nor its occupant had been cleaned for several days. Volpe lay curled the bed, shuddering and pulling at the coverlet, one hand groping for the bucket beside his bed. After sticking his head into the hallway to suck in one last lungful of clean air, Niccolò stepped into the room and closed the door with a snap.

Volpe looked up and saw him—saw him for the first time since the day of their near-fatal encounter. Those violet eyes widened, and Niccolò saw all of his own tumultuous feelings reflected in them—shock and grief and regret and _love_ , and then Volpe leaned into his bucket and retched.

Niccolò didn’t speak. He crossed the room in three wide strides and sat down on the bed. He gathered Volpe’s dark curls in both hands and held them back from the thief’s face while he vomited. At length Volpe returned the bucket to the floor and groaned, clutching a hand to his nose, which had begun to bleed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked somewhat thickly, turning that beaten gaze up to Niccolò, but the younger man only shook his head.

“We’re not talking right now. I’d just prefer that you didn’t die.” He thought of adding a _Not yet_ and decided against it. “Come. You need a bath.”

“I don't want one.”

“I don’t care. Come on, up.”

With some grunting and exertion, he managed to get Volpe upright, ignoring his stark nakedness and hauling him off the bed, supporting him with one arm around his waist as they staggered into the washroom adjoining the bedroom. The water in the wooden tub was lukewarm at best, but Niccolò dumped Volpe into it all the same, pretending not to hear his irritable little noises and plaintive pleas to return to bed.

“Stop,” he said wearily, when he could bear the whining no longer.

“I’m just so tired, _tesoro_.”

“Don’t call me that,” Niccolò snapped. He filled a bucket with water and dumped it over the thief’s head, raking his fingers through the filthy curls and wiping at the blood beneath Volpe’s nose. He dropped the cake of soap into Volpe’s hands. “I’m going to go change your sheets. Clean yourself up.”

The thief didn’t move, staring listlessly down at the soap. His voice left him in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t want to live if I can’t be with you.”

“I don’t give a shit what you want. And in any case, I’m certainly not going to waste my time on a man who can’t even bathe himself.”

“I want you.”

Niccolò shook his head and got to his feet. “Just shut up, Gilberto.”

“I love you.”

“I said shut _up_. Wash. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He left the washroom in a hurry— partially because he wanted to climb into the tub with Volpe and kiss him and _fuck_ him and forgive him everything, partially because he wanted to hold the thief’s head under the water until he drowned. Unable (and unwilling) to do either, he stripped the bed with a touch more force than was strictly necessary and threw the bucket out the window, and woe to any unwitting passerby in the street below.

When he returned to the washroom, towel in hand, Volpe didn’t look much improved. He’d made a feeble attempt at washing his face and hair before nodding off against the side of the tub, and was slipping down into the water when Niccolò hurried in and pulled him upright.

“Alright,” he sighed, more to himself than to his estranged lover, lathering his hands with the soap and digging his fingers into Volpe’s hair. “Alright, you fool. I’m here.”

He’d bathed Volpe twice before, as he recalled—once because it was nice and sensual and he liked the fire in his lover’s eyes when he got to put wet hands all over the thief’s body. And once because Volpe had been injured, his ribs broken, and hadn’t been able to wash himself without gasping through the awful pain of grinding bones. Niccolò was even gentler now than he’d been on either occasion. He finished with Volpe’s hair, rinsed him, and proceeded to scrub every inch of the man he could reach. Volpe, for his part, lolled his head against Niccolò’s shoulder and hovered somewhere between sleep and uncomfortable waking, occasionally murmuring soft, sweet nothings like they were in bed together and nothing had changed.

“I need you to stop talking,” Niccolò muttered, after the hundredth mumbled I love you against his shirt. “Please, Gilberto, just _stop_.”

“But I _love_ you.”

“I know. I know that, alright? But this is already hard enough without you—”

“I love you, _tesoro_.”

“Oh, fuck off.” He dropped the soap into the water and pulled Volpe to his feet to wrap him in the towel. The thief’s skin felt clammy, but the fever already crept back into his cheeks and brow.

Niccolò helped him to the bed, depositing him unceremoniously onto the fresh sheets before pulling a change of clothes out of the trunk in the corner. Volpe eyed them like a trapped animal.

“I don’t want them.”

“You’ll feel better if you behave like a human instead of a dying rat,” Niccolò said flatly, and proceeded to yank the long tunic over Volpe’s damp curls. “And if I do come back, I had better not find you naked and filthy. Understood?”

“Niccolò.” A hand caught his, and he froze, unwilling to look the thief in the eye. “I love you, Niccolò. I love you so, so much. Niccolò. I love you.”

“I need you to stop saying that.”

“But I—”

“Fuck, Gilberto! I _know_ , alright?” He threw the thief’s hand off and shoved him backward, pushing him into the bed and yanking the coverlet up and over his trembling body. “I _heard_ you. But repeating that over and over doesn’t erase what you _did_ , doesn’t make me believe that you _trust me_ , so it’s in your best interests to just _shut your damn mouth_.”

“Then tell me you still love me,” Gilberto whispered, his voice hoarse and shaking, reaching for Niccolò again, grasping his sleeve. “Please. Please, you owe me that much, tell me I haven’t broken us beyond repair, tell me… just tell me. _Please_.”

The stupid, blind fool. _Of course_ Niccolò still loved him. Loved him with mindless, fiery intensity, loved every breath that filled his lungs and every sideways glance they ever shared and every barely-concealed smile and every quiet laugh and every hand on warm thighs beneath the table and every secret, stolen kiss and every hidden touch against his lower back and every love bite against soft throats and every tug on his hair. Oh, God, yes. He _loved_ him.

But Niccolò steeled himself, because Volpe didn’t _trust_ him. Didn’t trust that he was still a loyal assassin, didn’t trust that he would tell Gilberto anything, _everything_ , didn’t even trust that his love wasn’t a fickle thing that could be broken because of too few shared words.

“I’m not telling you anything,” Niccolò said softly. “Not until you’re well enough for me to make you understand just how badly you’ve broken us. Maybe beyond repair, maybe not. That’s something we’ll have to decide together. Until then, I don’t owe you anything. Not love, not promises, not words.” He drew the coverlet up and got to his feet. “Don’t die before I see you again.”

Volpe lay back and closed his eyes. “How long?”

“When I feel like it.”

“But you will come back?’

“ _If_ I feel like it.”

“Alright, love.” Those eyes opened, looked at him, and Christ, of course he’d be back. “I’ll be here.”

* * *

He and Ezio fucked that night, neither slowly nor hard, just rode each other lazily and with no real intent because it felt good and because their sex had become something easy and familiar. Ezio ejaculated all over the cleft of Niccolò’s ass and then sprawled across his body, sucking languidly on his cock until Niccolò tightened his hands in the older assassin’s hair and moaned quietly through a half-satisfying orgasm.

“What are we doing?” Ezio asked, speaking into the soft, heated silence between them, his head resting on the younger man’s ribcage, breath tickling the hair on Niccolò’s stomach.

“I know what I’m doing.” Niccolò stroked Ezio’s dark curls, admiring the flow of those locks, like water, through his fingers. Volpe—never one for preening—was completely happy to leave his hair snarled and tangled, but maybe he only did so because Niccolò liked tending to the mess. “I won’t try to speak for you.”

“I’m enjoying your company.”

“Alright.”

“But not, I think, the way you’re enjoying mine.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Ezio sat up and climbed into Niccolò’s lap, straddling his hips and grinding down softly against him. Niccolò lay back against the pillows, biting his lip at the sight of Ezio’s spent cock sliding along his. Ezio reached for him, brushed his thumb across Niccolò’s swollen lips and trailed a gentle touch down the center of his throat, traced his collarbones before running the pad of a thumb over a soft nipple. Niccolò shivered at the touch, watched his skin pucker and harden in response to Ezio’s slow ministrations.

“I wouldn’t object to having you like this for the long term,” Ezio murmured, and leant down to run his scarred mouth over Niccolò’s chest, tongue flicking over his nipple in a soft tease. Niccolò mumbled useless, meaningless words back at him, arching his hips up to grind against Ezio’s warm sex. “But I know where your heart lies.”

His hands wrapped around Niccolò’s cock and tugged him, hard, too hard, and Niccolò winced. “Ah—”

“Shh. I know. It will get easier.” Ezio dipped one hand between the younger man’s buttocks and slicked his fingers with several firm thrusts into Niccolò’s hole, and the drag of wet fingers around his cock made the first little flames of new arousal spring up at the base of Niccolò’s spine. “I know what you’ve been holding in, _amico_. Let it go. You’ll feel better.”

“No,” Niccolò mumbled, shaking his head. “Ezio—”

“You don’t have to lie. I know what this is.” Ezio’s smile turned bitter as he watched the younger man’s eyes darken, watched want creep into that hard gaze. “I haven’t been laboring under false hopes.”

Ezio leaned in, and they kissed, but it was a bitter, broken thing—Niccolò too hungry, too eager, trying to make up for the things he didn’t feel. It was just too _different_ —Ezio’s tongue slid into his mouth and forced him to taste, tangle, and it was so different from the way Volpe kissed him, with his tongue just skimming the warm intersection of their lips, always teasing, never invasive, inviting and calling to him until Niccolò was mad with the desire to just _have him_. It was fine, Ezio’s kiss—a slow, deep mating of his mentor’s tongue and his, but it wasn’t the kiss Niccolò _wanted_.

And then he was thinking about it—about softer kisses, about words he tasted against his mouth when they broke for air, hands guiding his legs open and hips nudging into his ass before arms pulled him close and _held him_ , a soft voice in his ear, fingers smoothing through his hair— “You should let it grow longer”— before they would tumble onto the pillows, fumble at one another’s clothes, press together and hold one another close in between hot, wild waves of _wanting_.

“Gilberto,” Niccolò breathed, before he could stop himself, and his body moved without his permission, felt without the right hands prompting the sensations crawling up and down his skin. It wasn’t perfect, he could tell the difference still, but when he closed his eyes and concentrated he could recall the feel of different hands on him, in him, a cock of comfortable, familiar length and girth taking him as slowly and gently as either of them could stand. “Please. Gilberto…”

Volpe smiled—always, always smiled—right before they kissed. Like he couldn’t help himself. Like nothing in the world made him happier than bodies and lips pressed together in gentle harmony, in sweet sin that felt so good it _ached_. Niccolò had known he was in trouble from the moment he tasted that smile. Had known that his heart was in danger, that he may lose himself to this.

But he wanted to—more than anything in the mortal world, he wanted to keep loving the thief called la Volpe.

“ _Gilberto_ …”

He came—a weak, almost disinterested sort of coming that left him feeling empty and aching. He felt wetness on his cheeks, but couldn’t remember when he’d started crying—it was just so fucking painful, this ghostly remembrance of what he’d had, of what _they’d_ had. He kept mumbling the name—hating it, loving it, all in the same breath—over and over, sobbing like a child into the nearest pillow while Ezio came inside him. The master assassin touched him, smoothed a hand over his hair, and Niccolò grabbed at him, pulled him close and clung to him.

“Make me love _you_ —please, _Mentore_ , please, don’t let me—don’t let me _stay with him_ , please, it hurts—”

“Shh.” Ezio stroked his back, lowering him to the bed, withdrawing from his body with a backward shift of his hips. “Shh, Machia. It’s alright. You’re alright.”

“I’m not—I’m _not_. Ezio, he tried to _kill me_.”

“I know.”

“I love him and he tried to kill me.”

“I know.”

“ _Why_?”

“He was scared,” Ezio murmured. His body was strong and warm—a warrior’s body, a defender’s body, and Niccolò wanted more than anything to lose himself to it, wanted to feel more than just sinew and muscle when Ezio pressed into him. “He was afraid you had given up on the best parts of yourself—the parts of you that made him fall in love. He was afraid, and once fear takes hold, it’s not so easily banished.”

“Do I seem a traitor? Do I seem so deceptive, so cunning? I don’t _want_ to be, I—”

“No.” Ezio chuckled and shook his head, gently ruffling the raven tufts of hair beneath his fingertips. “No, Niccolò. You are what this world made you. You’re loyal—fiercely, endlessly. To a fault.”

“Why can you see that, when he can’t?”

“Love is blind, _amico_. Blind and stupid. You know this. You know this better than anyone.”

Niccolò closed his eyes. He liked the shape of Ezio’s shoulder, like the way the master assassin’s broad back felt in his embrace. “I’m sorry, _Mentore_ —Ezio. I’m so—sorry. You and Claudia both, I—”

“Stop. A man’s heart can’t help itself. For better or for worse.” Ezio cupped his jaw and kissed him. “This should be our last time.”

“But—”

“No. It’s not good for either of us. It never was.” The grandmaster smiled, a soft, wistful thing that didn’t suit his visage. “Don’t tempt me with things I can’t have. I’m a petulant child when teased.”

Niccolò sighed and released him, let Ezio roll off his pliant body to stretch out beside him on the bed. “I’m sorry I called his name.”

“Don’t be. I made you.”

Niccolò rolled onto his side, studying his mentor’s profile in the flickering candlelight. “Ezio. If you truly wanted me, you would have pursued me.”

“Not so long as you were with Volpe.”

“No—I don’t think that would have stopped you. You weren’t dissuaded from pursuing Cristina, after all. And Gilberto and I hardly share the love of epic poems. It’s a love with which we make do.”

Ezio’s mouth perked upward. “Get to the point.”

“I just wonder if you’ve used me as I’ve used you.”

The grandmaster lay beside him in silence for a time, eyes closed, lips parted—his scar shone pearly white in the firelight. Niccolò slid closer and nuzzled his face into the crook of the older assassin’s neck and shoulder, pulled his lips back from his teeth to gently bite at Ezio’s pulse. Just having him. Just one last time.

“Tell me—do they taste the same?”

“Who?”

“Men—in general. If I were to run my tongue over him, instead of you—would he taste different?”

Niccolò shrugged. “Do women taste different?”

“Yes.”

“I imagine the same applies to men.”

“You don’t know for sure? Having had at least two men as lovers?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter who I fuck, or how—all I can ever think of is how it is with Gilberto.” Niccolò propped himself up on an elbow and pillowed his cheek in his palm, running his fingers through Ezio’s (gloriously untangled) hair. “Is it—is it Leonardo?”

Ezio laughed and opened his eyes, tipping his head back to look at his protege. “Isn’t it always?”

“Mm.” Niccolò smiled a little at that. “I’ve seen how he looks at you, _Mentore_. He would have you in a heartbeat.”

“But would it mean anything? He’s an impossible man to catch.”

“Can you stand not knowing?”

“...Hm. I wonder.” Ezio rolled onto his side and beckoned the younger man with a jerk of his chin. “Come over here and kiss me.”

Niccolò did.


	4. Sear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Volpe and Leonardo are miserable, Ezio and Niccolò relapse, and Claudia is excellent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO much exposition.
> 
> The story Niccolò tells Ezio is canon to another one of my fics, By Love or By Fear.

Volpe would never admit it—ever—but the bath helped. The first one, that was—the second, third, and fourth, all orchestrated by his own clumsy hands, didn’t bring nearly so much relief. But after four more days abed he finally shuffled out of his room, a little nauseous still, but somewhat recovered. He didn’t find Bartolomeo to thank him—he would repay the favor some other way, later. When his life was mended. 

Rome hadn’t changed in the time he’d been away—which was good, because timeless cities shouldn’t change for the lack of one man, but Volpe couldn’t help but be a little hurt that it hadn’t missed him. He didn’t feel strong enough to climb, so he mingled with the crowds of people going about their business. Today he didn’t dip his hands into unwitting pockets or snip unguarded purse strings. For the first time in his life, he was the victim of a theft, and he didn’t much like the feeling. 

(Not that Ezio had really  _ stolen _ Niccolò—no, he wouldn’t let himself think that way.)

(Because Niccolò was not some pretty trinket to be stolen; and it wasn’t as if Ezio were smart or cunning enough to steal him, anyway.)

(But it still hurt.)

While he walked, Volpe tried to puzzle through it all. He felt so  _ clear _ now—so free of the conspiracies and doubts that had been haunting him, dogging his heels for months. He had seen enemies behind every corner, lies in every word. He had lain in bed with the man he loved and wondered if he was literally in bed with the enemy. 

Why? Because Niccolò had changed these ten long years? Because he was no longer that idealistic, cheerful boy of eighteen who had met Ezio in Venice, the night the Prophet was fated to appear? He and Volpe had fallen in love in the floating city, wiled away long, warm nights in one another’s arms, exploring bodies too long neglected by affection. Niccolò had been so  _ young _ , so vivacious, endlessly curious and sharp-witted, always covering a wide smile behind his hand, always plotting pranks and sniffing about for adventure.

There was something about Rome, though. Or perhaps it had started before Rome—something about relentlessly plotting the deaths of the pope and his mad son drained Niccolò, turned him harder, bitter. And then Ezio had failed. The villa had fallen. Mario died. They lost the Apple to Cesare, and with it, he threatened all of Italy—but Florence most of all, Florence  with her glittering works of art and dusty books, Florence, having just survived Savonarola’s spiritual and intellectual rape of her treasures. 

And Rome—Rome, where they battled day and night for survival, where Niccolò struggled to find ground in the treacherous Borgia court while learning how to be the grandmaster that the assassins needed, a role that even Ezio had yet to assume. 

There was just too much love in the boy—love for his republic, and his people, for his family, for his assassin brothers and sisters, for his fool of a mentor, for the most notorious thief in Italy. Men who loved much stood to lose everything. Of course that had hardened Niccolò. Of  _ course _ . 

When the heat of the day grew too strong, Volpe waded into the river and let it soak him up to his waist. He tipped his head back and felt the sun on his skin. Yes—he hadn’t trusted. He had expected Niccolò to break. He had come home and found some man named Machiavelli in his bed, some stranger with hard eyes and a wit that, once playful, had been honed and sharpened into a weapon. Volpe had just—expected his beloved to be swallowed whole. To disappear. In the smallest and most honest part of his heart, he knew he had tried to the Niccolò he loved from the man he’d become. Volpe didn’t love  _ Machiavelli _ —didn’t love this trickster who would gamble away pieces of his soul and safety to appease a Borgia prince. He didn’t love this chess master who watched from dark corners, who traded coin between hidden hands and secrets between prying mouths. He loved _ Niccolò _ —a boy of eighteen with ruffled hair and a constant, curious smile. He loved the man who read Livy and Plato until he was too tired to keep his eyes open, who scrawled lines of poetry on Volpe’s arms in the warm afterglow of love, who doodled in the margins of all of his books even though he couldn’t draw to save his life.

Volpe stood in the river and brooded. He tried to understand what, exactly, he had tried to kill—and what, exactly, he could still save. 

“Hey—hey,  _ hey! _ What the hell are you  _ doing _ ?” 

Arms caught him around the waist, wrenching him backward, and he stumbled along with their pull, letting himself be dragged out of the river and dumped unceremoniously onto the shore. Leonardo da Vinci’s pleasant face—pulled tight with concern—clouded his field of vision. 

“La Volpe? What were you doing standing in the river?” Leonardo frowned, pressed a hand to the other man’s forehead. “You’re feverish. Are you unwell?” He straightened, looked around. “Is Machiavelli with you?”

“...No.” Volpe touched a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. He did feel hot. “That’s why I was in the river.”

Leonardo laughed. “What? If you go a moment without supervision, you just wander into the nearest large body of water? Come, where’s Niccolò? I’ll take you to him.”

“Don’t. You can’t. He doesn’t want to see me.” Volpe licked his lips. He felt so dizzy; the sun was just so damn  _ hot _ . “He doesn’t want  _ me _ .”

“I’m—not sure I follow. Well, where can I take you? A doctor, perhaps?”

“It’s Ezio.”

“What?”

“It’s Ezio he wants. It’s Ezio he’s fucking, spending his time with… it’s over. It’s Ezio now.” 

“... _ What? _ ”

Volpe sighed—what part of this was the supposed genius not getting?—and lifted his head. He stopped short of a biting explanation, though, when he saw the look of stunned devastation on Leonardo’s face. “...Oh. Oh, no. Don’t tell me…” The thief barked out a laugh, cradling his head in his hands. “That’s too much. That’s too  _ much _ . After all this time, Leonardo?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Leonardo mumbled, pensive, but of course it was too late to recover.

Volpe sighed and tipped his head back, offering the artist a wan smile. “Welcome, then, to the elite circle of Machiavelli’s victims. I tried to have him killed, you know? Actually, I tried to kill him myself.”

Leonardo blinked at that. “Why?”

“Hm. I wonder? Maybe I just wanted my boy back. I was hoping I could steal him back from this juggernaut politico he’s become, but—” Volpe shrugged and waved a hand. “It’s undoable. He’s gone. I lost him. And now it doesn’t matter, because Ezio’s the one he wants.”

The artist watched him for a moment, expression unreadable, and then he lowered his gaze. “You’re ill, Volpe. Let me take you somewhere safe.”

“Leave me here.”

“I can’t do that. Come on.” Leonardo reached for him, wrapped an arm around his waist, and Volpe let the inventor haul him upright. “Up you go. Who’s looking after you? No, never mind—you’ll come with me.”

Volpe snorted, let his head loll against the artist’s (surprisingly broad) shoulder. “What?—so we can pine together?”

“Unless you have more compelling plans?”

No. Of course not. The only compelling thing in his life was in bed with Ezio Auditore. So Volpe let Leonardo lead him away from the river, and didn’t protest again. 

* * *

 

Machiavelli was reading when Ezio joined him.

He used to spend all day and all night engrossed in his books, and couldn’t quite remember when he’d fallen out of the habit, but he intended to make reading his refuge again. He was working on Cicero—having read and reread these works a thousand times while studying law in Pisa, he now found himself captivated by the sheer  _ elegance _ of the prose, wondering somewhat absently if he could imitate it himself—when the grandmaster opened his door. 

Ezio poked his head in, looking sullen and cautious, dark eyes watching Niccolò with all the wariness of a trapped animal. “Machia?”

“ _ Mentore _ ,” Niccolò said, stopping just short of facetiousness. “How can I help you?”

“I—may I come in? Not for—that,” he added hastily, when Niccolò lifted a brow. “I just…” But he faltered, and his hesitance struck a worried chord in his protege. Niccolò slid over to one side of his bed, and Ezio hurried inside, closing and locking the door behind him before climbing into the bed. 

“What’s wrong?” Niccolò asked, but the older assassin didn’t answer him; Ezio climbed beneath the coverlet and snuggled into the younger man’s side, looping an arm around Niccolò’s waist and tucking his head. “Ezio?”

“I didn’t come here to talk, Machiavelli.”

He heard a warning in his mentor’s voice, but Niccolò thought it worthwhile to push him a little. “Then why did you come? If not for the pleasures of the body, or of conversation?”

“What are you reading?”

“That wasn’t a very subtle attempt at distraction.”

“Please, Niccolò, just…”

Niccolò sighed and hefted the book onto his knee, showing Ezio the text. “Cicero. You’ve heard of him?”

Ezio huffed. “Yes. Father made me read him unendingly, back when he still thought I could be educated. You read this drivel in your  _ leisure _ time?”

“Cicero was brilliant. Not just as a philosopher, either—he writes beautifully.”

“Volpe told me—and forgive me if these wounds are yet raw—he told me that you don’t read as often as you did before you came to Rome.”

“He’s right,” Niccolò replied simply. “Reading rather… lost its charm. For a while. Perhaps I had become so clouded, so narrow-minded…” He fell silent for a moment, lifting a hand to stroke his fingers through Ezio’s hair. “Perhaps I was just conceited. I thought I knew all there was to know about this business of treachery and deceit, this madness we call politics.” He huffed a laugh against the crown of his mentor’s head. “I’m a fool, Ezio. I know nothing.”

“Leonardo tells me that admitting one’s own ignorance is a hallmark of wisdom.”

“Leonardo is uniquely wise.”

“Just so. Trust his opinion.”

“For the sake of my ego if nothing else, perhaps I shall.” Niccolò set his book aside and shifted down against the bed, resting easier now in Ezio’s arms than he had ever before—perhaps because the expectation of sex was gone, where before it had been an ever-hovering promise. There was a strange comfort in this innocent intimacy. “Why are you here, Ezio?”

“Will you tell me something?”

“If it will set you at ease, Mentor.”

Ezio’s mouth curled into a smile at the gentle tease. Machiavelli was the only man under the sun who could take that tone with him, and they both knew it well. “Tell me about how you fell in love with la Volpe.”

Niccolò blinked, taken aback. “I’ve never told you?”

“Nor has he.”

“Hm.” Niccolò rolled onto his back, resting a hand across his chest; Ezio took the other and looped their joined arms around the younger man’s waist. Perhaps on a whim—perhaps to ease the weight of an approaching and renewed grief—he pressed a chaste kiss to Niccolò’s shoulder. “I met Gilberto shortly before I met you. He and Paola found me in Florence, intending to recruit me into the brotherhood. I was—hesitant.”

“But Volpe convinced you?”

“Hardly. He told me I’d be better off staying home with the family who loved me. He treated me like a child—it irritated me. I’d never been so  _ irritated _ with another human being. He was callous and taunting, he knew how to pick on my insecurities. He was—cruel. If that was all a ploy, though, it worked—he intrigued me. As much as I disliked him, I was interested in him. We wound up journeying to Pisa together, briefly—another story for another time—and met our share of misfortune there.”

“And you learned to trust him?”

“Well, he had me in his bed in three days’ time,” Niccolò said bluntly, and Ezio barked a laugh. “Gilberto thrilled in the chase—then as now. I knew I only presented an entertaining challenge. I came to like the pursuit, the seduction—I brought him to Venice with me, stringing him along all the way, enticing him with little pieces of me for him to collect.” Niccolò swallowed somewhat thickly, and Ezio’s arm tightened around him. “I don’t know when I fell in love with him. I do remember  _ realizing _ it, though. We were in Venice, in the little love nest he’d procured for us—just a room in an abandoned inn, one that overlooked the Rialto. He was fucking me—like always—when he stopped. Just stopped. Didn’t say a word, didn’t apologize—just made me open my eyes and look at him. I remember holding my breath—no. I  _ couldn’t _ breathe. He began to move again—cautious. As if he were afraid—not for me, but  _ of _ me. I remember putting my arms around him. I remember thinking that we weren’t fucking anymore, that he was making love to me for the very first time. He was so slow, so gentle.” Niccolò closed his eyes and exhaled, relishing the vivid memories. “We didn’t sleep that night. I just let him have me, over and over, until it hurt to continue. And the way he kissed me—God, Ezio. I’d never been kissed like that before, nor since.”

Ezio’s hand shifted. It slid downward, rested with cautious heat against Niccolò’s crotch, gently palmed his stiffness. “Is he so thorough a lover that just the memory…?”

“It’s different with a man you love, Ezio. I don’t know how to describe it. It just is.”

“Mm.” That hand drew away, as they both knew it must, and Ezio returned his grip to Niccolò’s waist. “Do you want anything?”

“No. We agreed it had to end.”

“We did.” Ezio chuckled, brushed his mouth gently across Niccolò’s jaw. “But I would hate to see you left in discomfort.”

“Then help me think unappealing thoughts.”

Ezio leaned in a little closer, tracing a broad hand across the younger man’s chest. “You can tend yourself, if you like. I don’t mind.”

Niccolò bit his lip. He ran a cautious touch across the bulge in his hose and sighed before pulling at the laces. “Enjoy Hell, Ezio.”

“I will if you do,” Ezio murmured, and their kiss seared like sin.

 

* * *

 

“Please come back, Master.  _ Please. _ ”

Volpe scowled, looking up from his porridge at the youth seated across from him. In the corner of the studio, something shattered, and Leonardo began to swear loudly. 

“Alright?” Volpe called over his shoulder. He waited until Leonardo had grunted an affirmative before turning back to the young thief. “No, Angelo. Stop pestering.”

The boy leaned forward, eyes wide and earnest, and Volpe couldn’t help but lean away from him. “But, Master—”

“I said  _ no. _ What part of  _ no _ is so difficult for you to understand?” Volpe went back to his breakfast, ignoring those plaintive eyes. “You’re all well enough off without me. I shall return when I’m ready.”

“Are you still sick, Master?”

“Nothing that warrants concern. And stop calling me that.”

Angelo chewed on his lower lip, watching Leonardo try to fix his broken alembic before turning back to the master thief. “Is it—is it because of Machiavelli?”

Volpe nearly dropped his spoon. “Watch your  _ mouth _ , boy.”

“I’m sorry, Ma—la Volpe. It’s just…” Angelo leaned in again, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Everyone knows he’s a traitor. And we’re ready to move, as soon as you give the word—we won’t fail a second time.”

“A second—” Volpe shook his head, groaning and lifting his hands to rub his temples. “ _ Angelo _ . Machiavelli is not a traitor. Alright? I was mistaken.”

“Impossible,” the boy said, frowning. “You were so  _ sure _ —”

“And I was wrong. The traitor was one of ours. Machiavelli is wily, but he’s no turncoat. Leave it be.”

“With all due respect, Master, I—”

“I won’t hear another word of it,” Volpe snapped, giving his thief a hard look. “He’s one of us. Tell the others to stop yapping about what they don’t understand.”

“Master, you don’t understand,” Angelo said, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ve been watching, I—he’s fucking Ezio Auditore for sure, and possibly Claudia Auditore as well, I saw them—”

“ _Enough!”_ Volpe got to his feet so fast he knocked his chair over, slamming both palms down on the tabletop. Angelo fell silent; Leonardo poked his head up from behind his alchemy table with raised brows. “Enough. Let it go, you impudent pup, you understand? I don’t give a _damn_ who Machiavelli’s fucking. It’s no business of mine, and it’s certainly no business of yours. Is that perfectly clear?”  
The boy looked down at the table. He was seventeen, Volpe knew, but he still behaved like a petulant child. Even as he spoke, the boy’s lip began to tremble. “Yes, la Volpe.”

“Good. Return to the guild. I shall be along soon.”

Angelo rose slowly from his seat, lifting his hood and shuffling out of the studio, closing the door with a sharp snap behind him. Volpe lowered a slow breath and righted his chair, dumping himself into it and pressing his face into his hands with a groan.

“That was unpleasant,” Leonardo said mildly.

“Fuck off, please.”

“At least your thieves are loyal.”

“ _ Leonardo _ .”

“Alright, alright. Are you still hungry?”

“No,” Volpe grumbled. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

Leonardo joined him, cautiously sinking into Angelo’s abandoned chair. “Now that you’re well, I think it’s time you spoke to Niccolò.”

“And say  _ what _ ?” Volpe lowered his head until his brow hit the tabletop with a dull  _ thunk _ . “I apologized. I told him I love him. I told him I want to mend this.”

“You were ill,” Leonardo said gently, reaching across the table to clasp the thief’s shoulder. “Tell him again, now that you are of sound mind. Tell him as often and as loudly as you must. Make him hear you. Make him listen. If you can accomplish that, and he remains unwilling to reconcile… well. You can deal with that when— _ if _ the time comes.”

Volpe closed his eyes. “I just want to kiss him again. God. It’s been so long since I held him.” He lifted his head so suddenly that Leonardo jumped. “He couldn’t possibly be in love with Ezio? Right? I mean—so soon, before we’ve even had any sort of closure, and—it’s  _ Ezio _ , for Chrissakes! Right?”

Leonardo smiled weakly at that. “Right.”

“—Fuck. Sorry, Leonardo. I’m  _ sorry.”  _ Volpe folded his arms on the table and buried his face. “Maybe we should fuck each other. Make this whole sorry affair come full circle.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“I can’t, either.” Volpe sighed and lifted his head, raking a hand through his hair. “I really should return to the guild. I suppose I can’t wallow forever.”

“You can wallow a little while longer, I think,” Leonardo said, and blushed when Volpe smiled at him. “Alright, fine, because I could use the company, but what matters the reason? Stay with me, tend to your heart. Prepare the words you think Niccolò needs to hear.” 

Volpe nodded, and Leonardo clapped him on the shoulder before climbing to his feet. The artist had nearly made it back to his work table when the thief spoke again.

“Is he—do you think he’s changed, Leonardo?”

Leonardo paused, considering. “I think he wears a mask. I think he is trapped—as are we all—in Cesare’s hellish Carnevale.”

* * *

 

“Did I ever tell you that I used to be addicted to the poppy?”

Claudia looked up from the robes she was patching and raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Across the table, Machiavelli grunted and shifted in his seat, propping his feet on the nearest empty chair and flipping idly through his book. “When I was sixteen, the geldling I was trying to break threw me. I broke an arm and cracked five ribs. My father couldn’t stand to see me in such pain, so he procured milk of the poppy from a doctor of reasonable repute when he was promised it would help me rest.”

Claudia’s eyebrows inched upward. “Alright.”

“The doctor was right. The poppy eased my pain. But after the bones had set and the wounds had healed, I kept using the concoction. It was something beyond my control—something I  _ needed _ . At first I thought I was just afraid that if I stopped, the pain might return. But as time wore on, it became painfully obvious, to my family and myself, that it was just pure, animal craving for a substance that was altering my mind. My mother panicked. She discarded as much of the stuff as she could find, and without it, I grew terribly ill.”

“...Alright?”

“My father,” Machiavelli went on, nonplussed by her obvious confusion, “had a different idea. He let me keep the concoction, but administered it in lesser and lesser amounts each passing day. After a month, I had kicked the stuff completely, and my pain didn’t return.”

Claudia set down her stitching and rested her elbows on the table, watching the man with a frown. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because your brother, it would seem, is my new poppy,” Machiavelli sighed, giving up all pretense of reading and looking up at the young woman with a wince. “I thought I could end it, and I know I should. We both agreed. But I think to stop completely would be more painful than my father’s approach. We’ll have to be weaned off one another like a babe from the breast.”

Claudia huffed. “Why would you waste all that time and all those words setting up one metaphor if you’re just going to fall back on another?”

Machiavelli laughed. “Point well made. I haven’t slept with him since we agreed to stop.”

“Well, that’s good.” Claudia rolled her eyes and picked up the robes again, swearing under her breath when she pricked her finger.

“He did kiss me last night. Among—among  _ other _ things.”

“Niccolò,” the girl sighed, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes with a grimace, “why do you feel the need to tell me this?”

“I don’t know. I suppose, in Gilberto’s absence, you are the closest thing I have to a confidante.” 

“I’m begging you. Find another. I spent my whole childhood trying to escape tales of my brother’s bedroom exploits. Plague me not with his nonsense now.”

He smiled and lowered his legs to the ground, propping his chin on his fist and watching her resume her work. “Thank you for taking care of that. I know you didn’t come to Rome to be a seamstress.”

“Cesare Borgia has enough reason to see you killed, let’s not give him the excuse of shabby court attire,” she said. 

“Does Ezio not speak to you of his—of his love life? Or lack thereof.”

“Not often. Stand up a moment.” She followed him to her feet, holding up the robes against his chest and frowning to herself. “He did speak to me often when he and Caterina were seeing more of one another. Now that she has returned to Forli, he has been very private. Turn around?”

He did as asked, bending his knees so she wouldn’t have to reach to match his height. “Did he love her?”

“I’m not sure. I think not. Perhaps they were using each other as you two do now.” Claudia sighed, running a hand across his robes to smooth them against the broad line of his shoulders. “You really have grown into a man, Niccolò.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it. You were so young when we first met. I thought Volpe something of a fool for pursuing a boy of eighteen, but he has good foresight, it would seem. He must have known what sort of man you would become.”

“And what sort of man is that?”

Claudia snorted and slapped his shoulder, tossing his robes into his arms when he turned around, grinning. “Don’t start with me. Your affections are not welcome,  _ Messer _ Machiavelli. I know where that devious heart lies.”

“Perhaps it’s not too late,  _ bella _ —perhaps all I need is a woman’s touch to redeem me.”

“All the women in the world couldn’t undo what Volpe has done to you. I’m sorry, dear Niccolò, but I think you are very much beyond saving.” She pushed on his shoulder, his laughter tugging her mouth into a smile. “Go now. Go help my stupid brother reclaim this city, for what it’s worth.”

“Thank you for your help.”

“You can thank me by paying my girls a little more generously when they offer you aid!”

“Had I the money for that, I could have taken my clothes to a seamstress and not a butcher.”

Claudia smirked and pointed at the door. “ _ Out _ , Machia.”

He left Rosa in Fiore in a good mood—Claudia had that effect on him, always had—and set off for the hideout, ignoring the tunnel entrance in favor of an evening stroll. He felt good, lighter than he’d been in weeks, and walked along the humming streets with a bounce in his step. As painful as it was to imagine his life without Gilberto, he had Ezio and Claudia now, and that counted for—

Niccolò faltered, but kept walking. Wroth as he was to admit it, Ezio had taught him well—he sensed someone dogging his heels, footsteps that fell a little too synchronously with his own. He kept up his cheery pace, but inside he felt doused in ice, every nerve on end, every muscle tightened.  A shadow passed by overhead, and he swallowed. Two pursuers, then. At least. He knew this game well—they would dog him until he headed into an uncrowded area, then spring their attack. But who were  _ they _ ?—Borgia agents? Unlikely. If his cover was blown, Cesare would make a grand example of him. Public execution was the Borgia prince’s style. City guards would have no reason not to accost him in public, and raiders, this far into town…?

But it was the shadow from above that made him uneasy. La Volpe’s thieves were masters of the rooftops. And yet—surely not?  _ Surely _ not. Volpe had seemed so sincere the last time they saw one another—genuinely remorseful. Grief-stricken.  _ Heartbroken _ . And if this was a second attempt on his life, it was a clumsy one.

Niccolò decided to meet them head-on. He swerved into the back streets, away from the crowded city proper, ears strained for an impending attack. He was alone now save for a few hobbled beggars. If there was any time to attack—

A gunshot sounded, impossibly loud over the soft hum of the city, and a hole appeared in the stone wall directly to his right. Niccolò spun off to his left, plastering his back against the corner and tugging his glove from his hand, revealing his hidden blade and bracer. 

Alright. So they had a gun. That… complicated things. 

“ _ Traditore! _ ” someone called—a boy’s voice, high and tinny. “Show yourself, Borgia dog!”

Niccolò grit his jaw and peered around the corner, scanning the nearby rooftops. A bullet whizzed through the dirt by his foot, and he drew back quickly. 

“Stop shooting, and perhaps I shall,” he shouted back, glancing up and down the alley. He could probably make a break for it—if he could get to a tunnel entrance—

“You’re going to pay! For betraying la Volpe and the Brotherhood of the Assassins!”

Niccolò sighed. “I did no such thing! Or had you not heard that your master’s accusations were false?” Come to think of it, why the hell had Volpe been spreading his suspicions around inexperienced thieves?  _ Gilberto, you idiot. _

“Show your face, Machiavelli! Show your face or hers takes a bullet!”

Niccolò stiffened, the breath leaving his lungs in one hard gust. For the first time in fifteen years or more, he crossed himself briefly before peeking around the corner. The armed thief stood visible upon the rooftop now, but three of his cohorts stood on the ground—three guns trained on Claudia. She’d taken a beating—her lip was cut and bleeding, and her left eye was nearly swollen shut. She stood glowering at her captors, who were wise enough to stand at enough of a distance that she couldn’t disarm them.

“Don’t, Niccolò!” she called. A gunshot split the air, and she buckled with a shout. 

“Son of a  _ bitch! _ ” Niccolò whirled around the corner, hands raised in the air, teeth bared in a snarl. “ _ Claudia! _ ”

“I’m fine,” she said, lifting her head, stretching out a hand as if that alone could stop his slow advance. “It’s only my leg—Nico,  _ go _ —”

“Who’s the traitor now?” Niccolò spat, tilting his head up to glare at the little thief on the roof. “You  _ shot _ Ezio Auditore’s  _ sister _ , you complete and utter  _ idiot! _ He’ll gut you like a fish if _I don’t get to you first_!”

The thief came down from the roof, all nimble limbs and delicate steps—definitely one of Volpe’s. He landed like a cat and straightened, walking past Claudia and hefting his gun. It was a hand cannon, too big for him to carry in only one hand, and his fingers trembled around the butt as he approached the assassin. He was just a boy, maybe seventeen or eighteen at most, but he had the look in his eyes of a cornered animal.

“Volpe’s been blinded by his misplaced affection,” the boy said, breathing very quickly, blinking fast. “He no longer sees you as the traitor you are.”

“Calm down,” Niccolò said, lifting his hands a little higher when the boy’s finger twitched against the trigger. “ _ Easy _ . What’s your name?”

“Why d’you want to know?”

“Because if you tell me your name, we can have a gentleman’s conversation instead of a bloodbath.”

The boy watched him warily. At length he licked his lips and spoke. “It’s Angelo.”

“ _ Bene. _ Angelo. Why don’t you put the gun down?”

“No,” the thief said at once, hefting it a little higher when Niccolò took a step forward. “Come any closer and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes. You’re a silver-tongued devil who’s seduced Volpe into seeing past your sins.”

“We can address that in a moment. You need to let Claudia go.”

“ _ No! _ She’s your co-conspirator!”

Niccolò shook his head. “You can’t possibly have proof of that. Because it’s not  _ true _ , Angelo.”

“It is! I saw you—I saw you  _ kissing _ . How dare—how dare you toy with Volpe’s heart while  _ fucking _ your way across Rome!” The boy took a step back, licking his lips again, eyes darting about. “You deserve this. You  _ deserve _ it. Master should have killed you, should have, if Ezio Auditore hadn’t stopped him—”

One of the thieves released a shout—Claudia had taken advantage of his distraction and plunged her switchblade, hidden up her sleeve, into his gut. The other two bore down on her, and she fell back when her bad leg took her weight. One thief swung his rifle around, hitting her in the temple, and Angelo whirled around, hand cannon trained on her prone form—

Niccolò lunged, closing the distance between them in three swift strides and tackling Angelo to the ground, wrestling the gun from his hand and firing off two quick shots. One arced high—the other found its mark, and the thief who had hit Claudia lost his head in a spray of gore. Niccolò delivered a sharp hit to the back of Angelo’s neck, stunning the boy long enough for him to scramble to his feet and leap at the other thief. The man met him with a snarl, pulling a dagger off his belt and striking—Niccolò felt its bite against his chest, a shallow thing, and pushed through, hitting the thief in the face with the heel of his hand and deploying his hidden blade. He felt it sink through soft flesh, felt the warm spurt of blood run down his arm—

Too late he saw Claudia lunge for the dropped rifle—he reached into his belt for his throwing knives, but then the hand cannon went off, filling his head with white noise, and something plowed into his side so hard it knocked the breath from his lungs. He distinctly heard a  _ crunch _ , something so deep and so sick it rattled his teeth. 

Claudia lifted the rifle and fired. Angelo’s lithe form jerked like a puppet cut from its strings—he fell to the ground almost in slow motion, the spray of crimson from his open chest almost beautiful, and hit the ground with his arms spread wide, empty eyes turned heavenward.

And then it was over—perhaps in the span of a half minute at most. Niccolò reached out a hand to brace himself against the nearest wall, struggling to catch his breath. He had a stitch in his side—he couldn’t breathe around it, it was like a vice around his lungs. He turned to Claudia and tried to speak to her—she was bleeding, one hand clutched around her calf, her dark hair disheveled and her eyes wide, watching him—and instead he coughed, lifting a hand to his mouth on instinct. He was shocked to see his palm stained crimson.

“What—” 

He became vaguely aware that his head was swimming—because he couldn’t  _ breathe. _ The weight in his side was impossibly heavy, dragging him down; he fell back against the wall and slid to the ground, gasping, and Claudia crawled over to him, tears clinging to her long lashes, shaking her head. She slid her hands into his coat, fingers fumbling, and pressed both palms to his side.

“Claudia…?”

“Shh.” She removed one hand and trailed her knuckles along his cheek, and though she smiled, tears slid down her cheeks. “Shh, Niccolò, listen. I have to go get help. Okay. I have to go find a doctor.”

He blinked at her, flummoxed, while she continued to stroke his cheek. He tried to tell her not to be ridiculous—she was hurt, he would go—but he couldn’t catch his breath. Claudia sobbed loudly and took his face in her hands—her palms were wet and sticky—and pressed a kiss to his brow before shakily climbing to her feet. 

“Don’t move,” she said. “Don’t move a muscle. I’ll be right back. I’ll be  _ right back _ , Niccolò, I  _ swear _ .”

Niccolò watched her hobble away—she stuck her fingers in her mouth, whistling shrilly, while she staggered around the corner. He rested his head back against the wall, vision swimming out of focus, watched a pigeon flutter by overhead. His coat hung open; he looked down at his side and blinked blearily at the bright bloom of crimson on his shirt. 

_ You’re shot, idiot. _

_ Oh. _

“—here. Over here!”

“Are you sure?”

“—bodies—”

He heard footsteps. The clang of metal-tipped boots on the ground. A blurry face obscured his field of vision, a hand grasped his jaw and tilted his head up.

“One still alive.”

“Oh,  _ fuck _ . That’s the Florentine ambassador. Isn’t it?”

The hand released him. Niccolò let his chin drop, struggling to focus on the smudged outline hovering before him. The man wore a bull on his armor. A bull. A bull?

“You—run ahead and tell Valentino.”

Valentino. Oh, God. Not Cesare. Anyone but Cesare,  _ please God don’t take me to Cesare _ —

But he was slipping. There was a roaring in his ears, getting louder, and while the world faded at the edges that bull came to life, tossed its angry head and ran its horns into his side, gored him and left him bleeding on the street. He watched it canter away, disappear into the fog. He felt a hand in his hair, lips at his ear.

“This is what a silver tongue gets you,  _ tesoro _ .”

“Please don’t,” Niccolò murmured, turning his face to look at the smiling thief, reaching for him, touching the face that had become so dear. “Please don’t, Gilberto. Please. Can’t you see that I love you?”

But Gilberto was climbing to his feet, still smiling. Cold hands took hold of him, hoisted him up, and Niccolò fought their grasp, reaching—Gilberto swept his hood up and its shadows lengthened, obscuring his face. 

“Don’t,” Niccolò plead, closing a fist around the fog. Gilberto turned his back. “No.  _ No. _ Gilberto.  _ Please _ .”

But the fog swallowed him up, and the roaring in his head drowned out his words. 


End file.
